Blame it on the Rain
by Medieval Liz
Summary: He hated the rain. Hate, hate, hated the rain! Yea, he knew he was starting to sound like a petulant child grumbling about the rain as he was digging. But five days. Five. Five very long, very tiring, very wet days…


**A/N:** This story is in answer to a challege issued by LittleFairy on . It got stuck in my head and had to be written. I started writing without knowing where I was going with it, and low and behold even I'm surprised with where my Muse took it. Yes... blame LittleFairy. *grin*

Couldnt find a beta, so the mistakes are mine.

Reviews welcomed and ecouraged. Flames good for marshmallows.

DISCLAIMER: Supernatural isn't mine, but I like to play with Sam & Dean from time to time.

**

* * *

****BLAME IT ON THE RAIN**

He hated the rain.

Hate, hate, hated the rain!

Yea, he knew he was starting to sound like a petulant child grumbling about the rain as he was digging. But what else was there to say about the cold and slimy drops that fell for the fifth consecutive day.

Five days.

Five.

Five very long, very tiring, very wet days.

All because some whacked up nut job that decided that he wasn't good enough to keep going when he died. No. He had to haunt the sick old bastard's house where he died nearly a hundred years ago. He had to go and start scaring people off when they tried to move in and fix the place up. And then he had to go and decide scaring wasn't good enough anymore and started hurting people.

And then came the killing.

God, he hated ghosts.

Almost as much as he hated the rain!

The only good thing that came from the rain was the ease with which he was able to dig through the dirt covering the grave of said nut-job.

His brother had found the location of the grave in some old records at the library in the next town over. It was about an hour's drive back but had Dean felt he could get a start on the digging; save his little brother some time in the rain. He hadn't realized how fast he'd progress and it looked like he was going to get this sonofabitch salted and toasted before Sammy got back.

The tip of the shovel clipped the top of the coffin. He tossed the tool up and out of the recently dug pit and knelt down. The remaining mud stuck to his hands as he brushed it off the wood and made prying the casket open a little difficult.

It took several attempts but he finally got it open, reminded yet again why he hated the rain.

Rotting inside for decades, the corpse in question was, thankfully, well decomposed. The smell was little more than stale air, less offending than some of the bones he'd charbroiled.

He was thanking his lucky stars at the ease of the salt n' burn as he reached up to lift himself out of the grave.

The ground was slick with rain and his hands began to slip. Instinctively he dug his toes into the side of the pit to gain purchase and inevitably disaster struck.

Saturated dirt gave beneath his weight and his footing slipped, sending him falling onto his back. The back of his head struck the open lid and a shower of pain-filled sparks danced across his vision as he fell limply on top of the skeletal remains.

A cascade of mud fell into the open cascade, onto his legs and side, and he was dimly aware of the top of the open grave giving in to gravity. A domino effect, the circumference of the hole was falling in on him. The weight of the soil was pinning him down as it oozed over his arms and chest.

It started to cover his head, creeping into his ears and nose. And, with the terrifying realization that he was about to be buried alive, he started to struggle against the impending unconsciousness. He managed to lift his head out of the sludge but it still covered his face, hindering his breathing.

His body was sluggish to respond, and with what little strength he had he was able to turn onto his stomach. Arching like a cat, he fought to get to his hands and knees, but the mud pressed down on him and kept him pinned.

The seconds continued to tick by and the oppressive weight finally evened out.

Dean strained against it, pushing frantically with his hands. With a sucking sound he felt the mud slide around his body, seeping in to the tiny air pocket he had managed to create when he had turned over.

Mud dripped from his face as he tried to blink his eyes open but the dirt only worked its way beneath his lids and stung them. He was unable to breath through his nose, the mud inside already beginning to dry and clog his sinuses, and he knew he had only a minute of air.

Maybe two.

He inhaled through his lips and held it.

He needed to conserve his oxygen as much as possible and this was the only way he knew how.

A descent swimmer, he could swim underwater for a couple minutes before having to resurface.

This was just like swimming.

Breathe in; hold is as long as he could.

Forget the grit between his teeth, the dirty taste that coated his tongue, the fact that he was lying on a rotted corpse.

Think of Sammy hauling ass in the Impala. His baby would get his brother back in time. He wouldn't die like this…

His lungs were burning and his head was spinning, but he knew that if he gave in to the darkness calling to him that he would be dead in seconds. The mud would push past his lips, fill his mouth and lungs, and make it impossible for him to breathe what little air he had.

Sammy…

The breath he'd been holding exploded out of his chest and he breathed in deeply again before he could slow himself.

More goop got in to his mouth before he snapped it shut again and the waiting game started over.

How long could he go without taking another breath?

How long could he last, knowing how far Sammy had to come still?

Oh god…

He couldn't die like this!

… He wouldn't.

Painstakingly slow, he managed to manoeuvre his hand to the small of his back.

To the pistol he had stashed there.

Where is always was.

A cold comfort pressing against his skin through his thin t-shirt.

There was no comfort this time as his fingers clutched the pearl encrusted handle.

He was going to die today.

But he wasn't going to die like this.

How was going to be by his choosing.

… God, he hated the rain.

~~SNSNSNSN~~

He loved the rain.

Always had.

The way it fell, the feel of it as it dotted his skin, the sound of it as it pattered on the cobblestone path and headstones that surrounded him.

It left everything seemingly clean and refreshed, like the world was being washed of its filth and ugliness.

Something Sam had to deal with too often on a daily basis. All the evil and darkness, the corpses and monsters, the worst of the world and it was his to deal with.

But the rain…

He loved the rain!

It was an easy hunt, once he and his brother had figured out just who it was playing Casper the Homicidal Ghost. A run of the mill salt n' burn that would see them back in their motel room searching for their next hunt before midnight. A few beers, a few laughs, it was looking up to be a relatively enjoyable evening.

So long as Dean wasn't too cranky about waiting in the rain.

Dean hated the rain.

Chuckling to himself, he rounded the path and started to where the grave was to be located. He wondered if maybe he'd remember the information wrong because he couldn't see Dean anywhere. Sam had called him more than an hour ago with the information he'd found, giving the older man plenty of time to get to the cemetery from the motel. And yet he wasn't there.

Maybe he was supposed to have picked Dean up? He did have the Impala, which would have left Dean walking the half a mile from the motel or calling a cab – which Dean would never have done. Too much money he was not willing to separate himself from.

No, Dean had said he'd meet Sammy here.

So where was he?

As he continued to walk, he took his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the first number on his speed dial. It rang four times before going to his brother's voice mail. He left a quick message, asking Dean where he was, and knew he could expect a call back right away.

He stopped walking when he came to a row of older headstones. The grave in question was supposed to be here.

It was.

Along with his brother's duffle bag and a shovel.

But no Dean.

Sam shouted his brother's name, turning around on the spot, wondering if maybe he'd missed him somewhere along the path. It was dark and hard to see through the heavy rain, after all.

No Dean.

He redialled the number on his phone as he turned his attention back to the grave.

First ring…

The ground was uneven, like the grave had sunk in over time.

Second ring…

Why was Metallica's Enter Sandman playing in his head?

Third ring…

It wasn't in his head.

Fourth ring…

It was in the ground.

The phone fell from his hand as he dropped to his knees.

The soil was thick, wet, and it slipped between his fingers as he clawed his way into the mud screaming his brother's name.

He grabbed at the shovel, holding it close to its head, and dug into the earth with frantic speed.

Dean was buried.

Alive. He had to be alive.

Dean couldn't die like this…

Sam pushed those thoughts aside. He wouldn't think like that.

He wouldn't think about the slime falling back down the edges of the hole he desperately dug.

He wouldn't acknowledge that he was making little progress as the rain continued to fall, making the mud that much more viscous and unmanageable.

He wouldn't count the seconds as time continues pressing onward.

He wouldn't let his heart stop when he reached the opened lid of the coffin.

Instead, he threw the shovel aside and dug into the mud with his hands.

Up to his elbows, he felt around until his arm hooked around a body and he pulled with every ounce of strength he had.

The mud made a sucking sound as it fought to hang on to the prize it had claimed but Sammy held on and pulled all the harder.

And then his brother was free.

Dean's head hung against his chest, arms limp at his sides, as Sam lifted him from the hole in the ground. The rain started to wash the grime from his brother's face and he laid him gently on the wet grass.

His brother wasn't breathing.

With trembling hands he scraped the clumps of earth from his brother's face, noticing that it seeped from between Dean's lips as his jaw opened at Sam's touch.

There would be no CPR…

Sam rocked back as that realization crashed over him, and that's when he noticed the pistol clutched in his brother's hand.

The index finger curled tightly around the trigger.

But there was no bullet hole.

The gun hadn't been able to fire.

There had been too much mud.

It gummed up the firing mechanism, filled the barrel.

His brother's lungs when he'd breathed it in…

Tilting his head back, Sam screamed at the sky.

He screamed at the ghost that brought them there.

He screamed at the brother that didn't wait for him.

He screamed at the clouds…

And he screamed at the rain.

… He hated the rain.


End file.
